


Colours

by CantSpeakFae



Series: BtVS: One Shots [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angel gets broody, Buffy Summers is a rainbow of pastels, F/M, Introspection, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: It's in those moments of defeat that he likes to think back to colours he used to love. Colours that he can't even see, anymore. Pastels that popped out at him; imprinted themselves on his senses until he was dizzy.





	Colours

He sees the world in shades of grey, with only the occasional splashes of red. There's no good in the good fight. Only lesser offenses compared to the greater ones that he tries to find justice for. Steal a car to save a girl's life. Torch a building to kill the demons inside. All another step toward the greater good of the world, and then another three steps back as a new evil rises, bent on destroying it all.

That's when grey turns to red. Like the blood that stains his hands and drips from his lips. Or, maybe it's not on him at all. Maybe it pools under the body of someone he couldn't save. Maybe it brightens the lips of an old enemy that he can't seem to find the strength to kill, no matter they do. Part of him hates it. Not just because it's violent. Not just because it's jarring, and rocks him to his core. Not even just because it means that, somehow, he's failed again. Failed the people he's trying to save. Failed his friend. Failed himself. No, he hates it because, deep down, he knows that part of him will always love it. Will always _crave_ it. The side-effect of his condition of _existence_.

He wants the blood. The violence. The fight. The never-ending battle and torment because the demon will always lurk inside of him, waiting for another chance to get out.

Red is his favourite colour, whether he likes it or not. And that part of him will accept no substitutes.

It's in those moments of defeat that he likes to think back to colours he used to love. Colours that he can't even see, anymore. Pastels that popped out at him; imprinted themselves on his senses until he was dizzy.

Light pink like the bubble gum she'd chew between sparkling white teeth. Pink that expanded out at him when she pursed her lips and blew a bubble that grew bigger...and bigger...until it popped and left nothing but a sweet fragrance in the air.

Orange like the scent of the lip gloss that she'd smear on her mouth. Iridescent in colour, and he knew that it must reflect rainbows in the light that he couldn't see her in. He'd long for that chance, even while she was kissing him and leaving the taste on his mouth that wouldn't fade for hours.

Baby blue like the sweater she'd wear on colder nights. It looked soft, but he could hardly bring herself to touch her when she was in it. Not when the moon washed down over her and made her tanned skin look like porcelain. He was always afraid that she'd shatter.

Pale yellow, like her hair, when it was fanned out against his pillow. She looked more peaceful in his arms than she did while awake. The troubles of the world couldn't touch her there. But she'd dance her way through his 'home', leaving her mark on anything. Her scent would overwhelm him long after she'd gone, sometimes soothing, sometimes driving him half-insane.

He thinks of those colours and he tries to hold onto his reason for fighting. Why he ever thought redemption could be possible or why, even if he'd never be able to redeem himself for what he'd done, it wouldn't matter. Why he'd fight on, fight harder. Why he thought that doing good for the sake of good was worth the energy.

Those colours only exist in his memories. He knows that they don't shine from her now. That she's every bit as sharp and muted as the world around him. That he can't match the image of his girl with the woman who fights harder every day than he can imagine. He tries not to think about it. Tries not to look when they cross paths, now, so he can hold onto the girl that once asked him for forever.

It's selfish, he knows. To love the past an ignore the present. To idolize a fantasy after denying her a future together. But he does it anyway. He holds on. Part of him hopes that she does the same. That she thinks of him as he was, not as he is. That, somehow, parts of themselves are frozen together. Happy. Or, even if she doesn't think of him at all, that she wouldn't begrudge him his coping mechanism. That she'd understand that they all do whatever it takes to keep fighting.

And that...maybe one day...they'd win the fight and he'd be able to see those colours again.


End file.
